


Coming Right Along

by jendavis



Series: Coming Right Along [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck's seen this coming. Most of it, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Right Along

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hc_bingo prompt, "fallen angels."

Dean's alone when he shows up on Chuck's doorstep.

"Ten minutes. Pack what you need."

He's pushed into the Impala's front seat five minutes later, and Dean's talking a good line about allies and sticking together. Even after Dean falls silent, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music, it doesn't feel right, sitting up here where Sam should be.

\---

They travel three hundred miles before he brings it up.

"It's better this way," Dean says, staring at the road, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "Less distracting, and we can cover more ground."

As if he's forgotten that Chuck already _knows_ how this is going to play out.

He'd been packed and ready to go for a week, now.

\---

Castiel's in the back seat when Chuck wakes up, leaning forward in puzzled earnestness, which will eventually become recognizable as his normal state of being, but at the moment, all Chuck notices is the tension around his eyes. Dean seems to take Chuck's awakening as the signal to change the subject, but Chucks already seen this far. He doesn't know it until they pass the road-killed deer on the shoulder of the highway, but they should've been arguing about Castiel's attempts to find God, by now..

Dean and his doubts, Cas with his, and all Chuck can think- and since he's written himself this far into the plot, he may as well- is that it's funny, kind of. Of the three of them, it seems that the only one who wants to actually go off and _find_ God is the one who probably shouldn't have to be _looking_ for him in the first place.

He doesn't get a chance to bring it up, though, because Dean's asking him about the sudden flat-lining of demonic activity up near Milwaukee, if maybe Chuck thinks it could be Sam's doing.

"I don't know," Chuck admits. "I mean, I've seen him fighting some demons off, but it's not taking place in front of a street sign, or anything. Sorry."

"Whatever," Dean shrugs, grinning a little bit like the answer doesn't bother him.

Chuck isn't all that tired, but he's got a headache coming on. He can't tell yet if it's low blood sugar and the late hour, or if he's going to be hit, soon, with more information. His fingers glance over the flask in his pocket, just in case, and he lies against the backrest, closing his eyes. If the visions are going to hit, they're going to hit, and if they don't, at least he'll be well rested. He'll know soon enough.

The end of the world will still be there in the morning, and with any luck, they'll have reached their destination by then.

\---

Camp Chitaqua was probably a nice place, once upon a time, but there hasn't been a park ranger on duty for months now. One of the trails leading up from the parking lot is totally washed out, and the forest has already reclaimed one of the campsites. There are nine cabins by the water, though, another twelve up on the hill, and there's enough firewood cached to last them weeks, if they wind up needing to stay around that long.

By the time he's cleaning out the cabin he's claimed for himself, the vision's finally hitting. Strangers, wandering into the camp, dirty from the road and scared, looking for shelter. A fence going up and security patrols being assigned. Something about Dolly Parton, and Dean trying to call a meeting to order, and Cas giggling at a campfire, his mouth wider than it should be.

\---

Dean crashes out in one of the cabins for eighteen hours, and then he's heading back for his car, saying over his shoulder that he's going to head out to see if Bobby wants to join them. Sioux Falls is twelve hours away. It doesn't make sense that he wouldn't just call, he points out, not ready for the frustration in Dean's eyes when he turns.

The cell phone hits Chuck in the chest, and the batteries are on, but there's no signal, out here.

"There's no signal _anywhere_ ," Dean growls. "Where the hell've you _been_?"

\---

Mostly, Chuck just keeps to himself and his bottle, same as he's been doing, but he knows what's coming. There's work to be done.

\---

Camp Chitaqua's got a gift shop in the visitor's center, but unless someone decides to send their kids out on a field trip, it's not likely that they're going to find any use for the racks full of weak binoculars, but the attached field manuals could be used as kindling, at some point, so he sets them aside before junking the toys.

Rock salt would probably be more useful than the jars filled with rock candy, but who knows. He's still scratching his head over how to best sort out the souvenir sweatshirts when there's a sudden flapping noise over by the door that he thought he'd shut behind him. How a bird got through-

He turns to find Cas, an entirely different sort of lost bird.

"Hey, man, how's the search for God going?" It feels like an incredibly awkward thing to be asking, but Castiel's staring at a display of novelty pencils like they're the most fascinating things he's ever seen.

"I'll find him," he says, eventually, finally turning his gaze Chuck's way. "Probably not today, though." Chuck considers asking him about it, for a moment, but Castiel's attention is already out the window again.

"So what're you up to in the meantime?"

"Observing."

"Managerial or anthropological?" and he smirks when Cas nods his head in reply. "Can't promise it'll be very interesting," he decides, turning back to the sweatshirts. "But knock yourself out."

"Why would I do that?"

"Huh?" Chuck shakes his head. "It wasn't an order, man, just….Hey. I've got a couple of questions for you, actually. I mean, no offense, but, why didn't you go with Dean? And what the hell is going on with all of this?"

"You don't know?"

"I know that things are happening, but not why, most of the time."

"Oh." Cas blinks. "In the event of an attack, Dean can defend himself in ways that you cannot, and I can be there instantly should the need arise." He turns, rolls his head instead of waving a hand to indicate the gift shop. "The Croatoan virus has already decimated several cities, and communication with allies is only going to become more complicated." _Your visions are all we've got_ , he doesn't say.

"Okay, so, getting all the ducks in a row. Got that. But why didn't we all go out to Bobby's?"

"His home is known to every demonic and angelic presence in the universe. It will never be safe there. Dean hopes that he will join us here."

"Will he?"

"No."

"So he's wasting a trip."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Because it can't be changed," Chuck shrugs, and it's not until Cas bows his head, briefly, before disappearing, that he realizes he was expecting to have to argue the point.

\---

He's fallen into his old habits and has the visions all scrawled out on paper before he even realizes what they mean, but one quick glance tells him everything that he needs to know. It also tells him that without the aid of spell-check, he probably couldn't write his own name.

All he wants to do is crawl into the bottle again- his head's pounding so badly that _walking_ hurts. He grabs the bottle- half empty, now, but there's three more in his bag- and goes outside.

He's seen Dean do it before, call Castiel out of the woodwork, but it feel ridiculous calling out into the empty campsite, and he's still surprised when he hears the rustling wings behind him.

"How do you always know- never mind. Look. I got something here," he says, shaking the stack of papers towards Castiel, who makes no move to take them. "Warehouse. Tonight. Yellow walls. Two angels, Rehael the only name I've got, though. You know him?"

"Yes," Cas sighs, and maybe Chuck's getting better at reading his varied reluctances, but he doesn't press.

"Rehael's pissed, man, he wants to bring you in. But it's the other one who's going to come at you with the knife. He's. Ah. Left handed."

Castiel isn't surprised, but stranger still, he doesn't ask for more information. It's just as well, because Chuck probably missed something important when he was noticing which hand the angel was using. He's got nothing else.

"Thank you," he says, and then reaches out his hand, presses two fingers into Chuck's forehead. By the time the headache evaporates, Cas has done likewise.

Chuck hefts the bottle, considering it. It doesn't seem necessary, now.

He drinks himself to sleep anyway, just to drown out the worrying.

\---

In the morning, Cas is back, and there's blood on his face that he doesn't seem to know is there.

"How'd it go?" he asks, because his visions didn't take him far enough to find out for himself.

"I had to kill Rehael." he looks up, squints at the tree line. "The Host wants me dead."

"That sucks," Chuck tries, cringing at how flippant it sounds, but Cas takes the whiskey that he's holding out and downs a swig. Hands it back, his face still impassive.

\---

The watch tower's probably about a quarter mile off from the campsite, and Chuck hasn't made it out there yet, but Cas's description, when he returns, is that it's windy and that there are no forest fires in the area.

"Can you see the roads from out there?"

"Enough of them that if anyone's coming, we'll see them."

\---

It takes five days for Dean to return. As expected, Bobby's not with him, but the Impala is full, nonetheless, and there's another truck following behind when it pulls in. Three men, four women, and they're all tired and hungry.

Chuck goes and gets a loaf of bread and a few more cans out of the stockpile before going out to meet them.

He's a little surprised to see that it's a lot more well stocked than it was this morning, the last time he saw Cas, and there are two cases of whisky sitting on the floor.

\---

"Bobby's hell bent on holding down the fort out there, which is bad for us now, but if shit goes to hell around here, we've got a backup plan," Dean's telling the two of them later that night, after all the new recruits have gone to bed. "In the meantime, we need to figure anything out, we're on our own. Thankfully, we've got our very own prophet, here," he grins sympathetically at Chuck.

"I have to go." Castiel says, not yet having mastered the art of the segue.

"What, already?" Dean rolls his eyes.

"Yes. And now that you have, I must return to the search."

"Right, well. If you see him, kick God in the shin for me," Dean grumbles, turning around to head back inside. He doesn't see Cas watching him go, but Chuck does. Sees the frustration and anger, there, too.

\---

Chuck goes out on missions now and then. Learns to shoot, barely, but it only lasts as long as his glasses hold out. Once they're broken, it'll take months to scavenge some that work well enough to see more than five feet in front of his face.

Right now, though, Dean's wrapping a bandage around knuckles that wouldn't need it if Chuck had been able to hold his own.

"I know. I know what you're going to say- I'm useless out there, man, but-"

Dean shrugs. "Hell, man, if it weren't for you, we'd probably be taking bets on if we'd freeze or starve first. Just because you're not a crack shot doesn't mean we don't need you around here. I mean, shit. Just play to your strengths like you've been doing."

Before the novels took off, Chuck bounced from temp gig to temp gig to pay the rent, and did six months as a file clerk for some corporation he can't even recall, anymore. He can, however, remember Stephanie, who worked in the next cube over and had a picture of herself and her mother on her desk. It's the frame that held the photo- lime green, with pink lettering- that he's thinking of now. "Find out who you are and do it on purpose, huh?"

Dean smirks. "Sounds like some new age guru stuff to me, but whatever floats your boat, man."

"Dolly Parton, actually."

"Well, then." Dean's smirk widens into a grin as he walks away. "I always _knew_ she was a genius. _Man_. Good ol' Dolly."

\---

It's been a stressful month.

More people are showing up than they can support, and it's draining the hell out of their supplies, but underneath it all, Dean's a teddy bear. Pointing out as much to him results in quizzical looks and mutterings about suicidal porn addicts, but it's still true. He wants to save everybody, even when he knows he can't. It's probably one of the only reasons nobody's tried overthrowing him yet.

Dean's turned his cabin into some sort of bedroom-slash-armory-slash-mission control center, nit the rest of the cabins are filled, now. Chuck's moved out of his, and into the office of the visitor's center. Officially, it's because he needs to be there to keep an eye on the supplies, but unofficially, there's a huge couch in there that's far more comfortable than his bunk had been, anyway.

Across the entryway is an education center, where people used to listen to talks about deer populations and local flora. It's still used, but now the classes are different. Ammunition, patrol shifts. Security updates and inventories. And ever since last week, the new arrivals have been rolling out their sleeping bags on the far end.

At some point, they might take up the entire room. This is what keeps Chuck awake most nights.

\---

Chuck has no idea what day it is when Castiel comes back, but he can hear the shouting from across the camp. Maureen and her crew have the seed sorting under control anyway, and he stops off in his office to grab a few beers from his stash, shoving them into his backpack and locking the cabinet before heading out.

"You know what we're up against, here, Cas? While you're out on your lost cause, looking for your daddy? We've got Croats all over the damned county. We can't go out on a supply run without losing three people, and-"

"And it's only going to get worse," Cas says, calmly enough, brushing his fingers over the blood on his shirt. He looks exhausted. Fuck, he looks _depressed_. "What would you have me do about it?"

"I don't know. You said you wanted to help, so _help_. Make yourself useful or fuck the hell _off_ , but make up your damned _mind_!"

"I could ask the same of you." Castiel's accusatory monotone still manages, somehow, to mimic Dean's completely. It's all in the stance, the eyes.

Chuck realizes that he really shouldn't be seeing any of this at the exact moment they notice him standing there.

"Uh, hey," he offers, nodding at them both. "I'd ask how it's going, but…" he's interrupted by the sound of wings, and then it's just Dean standing there, annoyed.

"Fucking angels, man," Dean grumbles, running his hands over his face, and there's nothing to be done for it, so Chuck hands him a beer.

\---

Castiel's still around, a lot of the time, but he and Dean are avoiding the hell out of each other for the time being, and it's getting ridiculous, how tense it's making everyone.

Chuck wonders what the hell is going on between the two of them, mostly because nearly everyone in the camp is coming to him hoping that _he's_ got the story. He has to tell them that they'll get over it, that they're just stressed out.

He doesn't tell them what he's starting to think. That both of them are losing faith, fast. It's the last thing anyone needs to hear right now.

It's almost like watching Dean fight Sam, but there's a difference, here. At least with Sam, Dean would try and bridge the gap, after a day or so.

Then again, Dean's not even doing _that_ much any more, so it's probably too much to hope that he'd try it for Castiel.

\---

The visions, still come, but they're growing more and more vague. Less like he's watching it in hi-def, and more like he's looking out the door and catching snatches of conversations on the street.

The headache's still there, though, and after a while, lying on the couch trying not to move is just as painful as everything else is, and his room is absurdly warm for this time of night. He grabs the whiskey bottle- it's getting low, pretty soon it'll be time to go out and search for more- and heads outside.

He's got his hand on the door, checking on the people sleeping on the floor in the room across the way, when he catches sight of a beige jacket, sitting in one of the chairs, his back ramrod straight but his head drooping forward.

He calls his name, quietly, and nods towards the door when Castiel turns his head, looking outside to see if they're likely to have any company. It's easier than catching a second glance at the miserable look in his eyes.

\---

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You usually sleep there?"

"I don't need to sleep," Cas replies, and Chuck wonders if he's lying.

\---

It's not like he's going to bring it up, or anything, but another week goes by and Cas is still in there, night after night, keeping watch with his eyes closed.

At first, Chuck thinks it's disturbing because if Castiel feels the need to keep watch in there, then it means that all their security protocols are totally useless. Then he thinks he's supposed to be worried because if Castiel's mission, here, is so closely tied in with Dean, then maybe he should be keeping an eye on _him_ , rather than a roomful of near strangers.

Then, one night, when he's admitted to himself that he really _is_ losing sleep over this, and that the only thing to do is confront it head on, he actually gets out of bed and goes across the hall. Gets close enough to see that _yes_ , Cas has got his eyes closed, and they take a moment to focus when he opens them.

Turns out, angels need sleep after all, and now Chuck's leading him out onto the front steps and worrying about something totally stupid.

Castiel was the one who helped him set up this entire place, that first week. And yeah, he's been in and out, and things are pretty egalitarian around here, but it doesn't seem right that he doesn't have a space for himself.

So now he's feeling like shit, because he's the one who's supposed to make sure everyone's taken care of, and at some point, he could've easily done something about it. But now the rooms are packed, and he's not coming up with any solutions, he's just standing here with a bottle in his hand, pretty much guaranteeing that Castiel's going to be even _worse_ off.

If Cas minds, though, he doesn't say. Just keeps passing the bottle back, a little emptier every time.

\---

By the time morning rolls around, he can't believe he ever worried about something so inane.

\---

There are thirty-five people here, now and none of them are stupid. They know why they were here, they remembered what they'd had to fight through to _get_ here. But they haven't all been doing it so long that they're used to it.

Angels, it turns out, is one hell of a sticking point.

He's known it was coming down the line, he's known it for days, now, but he honestly _doesn't_ known that it would get set off because Brent asks Cas why he never seems to _eat_.

Dean's out doing recon when the word gets out, and he's trying to do what he can to reassure people in the meantime, but it doesn't do a whole lot of good.

Half of the people, once the word spreads, think Castiel's a demon. The other half think that he's supposed to be a god, and half of _that_ group thinks that he's as much to blame for all of it as the demons are.

Chuck wonders what would happen if they found out exactly how this entire apocalypse got started, but he's not going to find out.

By nightfall, everything's such a mess that the guns are out, and most of them are pointed at Castiel, who's regarding them with a calm puzzlement that does absolutely nothing to set anyone at ease. Then again, it's not as if their guns are actually a threat to him.

There are a few, though, aimed at Chuck, in case he really is in league with the demons, trying to trick them all. So he figures he's feeling threatened enough for both of them.

It's not the first time in Chuck's life that he's relieved to see Dean. He's standing on the front steps of the visitor's center, and he's got the advantage of position. He's also got a machine gun in his hands, and could take them all out in one sweep.

"Okay. I'm only saying this once. Chuck, there? He's a prophet, and Cas, there? He's an angel. Yeah. _Of the Lord_ , both of them. You want to try messing with either of them, you go right the fuck ahead, but be ready, we're talking _biblical response_ , here. And if you don't like it, you're welcome to leave. Whenever. You. Like."

That breaks up the party enough that Castiel's able to undo the ties around Chuck's wrists.

"What the fuck was that?" Dean storms down from the steps, glaring at the retreating flock.

"It had to happen," Cas says, after a moment.

Dean rolls his eyes towards Chuck. "So spaketh the Lord, huh?"

"What? Look. I don't know, but. It's going to come out at one point or another. Better now than in the middle of. You know. An _actual_ fight. Right?"

"Yeah, well." Dean shakes his head, looks out over the empty yard. "Just because I talked them down doesn't mean they're happy, and it could still come back to bite us in the ass. Both of you need to watch it, okay? And maybe don't go around freaking people out so much, while you're at it." This, he directs at Castiel, who just cocks his head in confusion.

\---

Turns out, there was a point to their near lynching.

Because if it weren't for the fact that Chuck, at least, was a little bit paranoid afterwards, he wouldn't have paid so much attention the speculative looks on everyone's faces. He wouldn't have been watching for those looks to change into something else.

And he wouldn't have noticed it when Kevin's glances gave him away, and he wouldn't have been able to warn Dean.

\---

The others think it was the demons that lured Kevin away from his post and got him in the middle of the night, that Dean and Cas were too late. It's better than knowing how Cas read Kevin's mind and found his destination all tied up with an angel named Samael. And it's _definitely_ better than knowing that, once Kevin decided to surprise them all with a little light Enochian summoning, it was Dean who fired the kill, mid-chant.

\---

The worst thing about it? They haven't even gone off script, yet. This was all supposed to happen. So is what comes next.

\---

The Croatoan virus makes it into the camp, early one morning, in the back seat of an old Honda.

Five are shot dead and one's still dying before Castiel's able to make any inroads with the laying on of hands, but apparently people don't react well to witnessing a miracle, even when they've been warned.

By the end of the day, they've lost ten people. Five are burned and buried downriver, another five have left. Three leave because they've reached their limits with regards to complete fucking insanity. One of them, Marty, can't deal with the fact that he'd been the one to shoot his own Cousin.

And then there's Krista, the last one who Castiel healed. She's decided that her second chance at life can't be wasted, that she needs to go forth and spread the word, because it's wrong to sit here so protected when the rest of the world needs hope.

Even Cas tries to talk her out of it. It doesn't take.

\---

One week later, Dean and Cas come back from checking out some intel about the demon setting up shop two towns down the highway. Chuck's too used to hearing these debriefings until Dean sighs. "One of them was wearing Krista."

After that, Chuck doesn't want to hear any more.

\---

He wonders what's going to happen when someone shows up with children, and every time a car's spotted on the highway below, heading their way, he crosses his fingers and hopes that today isn't the morning he'll have to find out.

It's two women, Jane and Risa, and it's too soon to tell if they're more relieved to have arrived here, or if they're just glad to be out of the truck.

Jane's from Louisiana but Risa won't say, and their truck won't last much longer, but they've loaded it to the roof with supplies. Looking through the windows Chuck can see several pounds of rock salt, a small generator and enough fuel to keep it running for two weeks straight, or turn their truck into a fireball if they cornered too fast.

"Figured it'd be easier if we had a little buy-in on hand," Risa says, when she sees the surprise on Chuck's face, and it's clear that she's probably the more serious and practical of the two, which is why Dean's pulled her aside to give her the standard new arrival welcoming interview and lowdown, out in front of the truck, and after a few minutes, Dean nods, waves some more people over, and they start a fireman's chain to move the supplies into storage.

They've brought medical supplies, too, and food. Most if it's dried and in cans, but there's crates full of fruit and a truly astounding amount of carrots and potatoes, and there's a huge heavy cooler that Jane tells him not to open before asking if there's a freezer on site.

"Just the refrigerator up in the kitchen," Chuck says, helping her ease the cooler out of the truck and down onto the ground.

"How many people you got, here?"

"Twenty seven, including you."

"Awesome. Soon as we're unpacked, I'll get to cooking. Figure a stew will make a decent dent in the meat supply, at least. That kitchen have an oven?"

\---

Chuck can admit that his initial impressions were wrong. Risa might be the serious one, but Jane's no less practical. It's funny, how happy she seems, ordering around the four others who've volunteered to help in the kitchen, until she explains, "I was a mess cook before I opened my restaurant."

There's stew, bread, hell, even a salad, and there's enough to go around twice with plenty left over. Dinner's two hours late, but there's not a single complaint.

\---

He doesn't notices that anything's changed until he goes two weeks without a headache.

It's not until the third week that he realizes that it might actually be a problem.

\---

Chuck's in the storeroom when it starts, but the alarms sound and he's there with the rest of the camp for the finale. Down by the gate, Dean's got the Impala pulled up behind one of the trucks, and the door's still hanging open.

Dean's covering Castiel as he kneels next to Maureen, trying to heal her, purge the disease from her system, and it doesn't seem to be working, he can barely keep her still, and eventually, she manages to throw him off completely, sending him flying against the side of the car.

Dean shoots as soon as Castiel's clear.

"Diego and Steve are infected. They went that way," he points out, glancing concernedly at the two of them. "You stay here with Cas."

And then it's just the two of them, not counting Maureen's dead body, listening to the chase get further away. Chuck's the only one who flinches at the sound of gunshots. Castiel doesn't even hear them.

\---

Afterwards, Cas won't speak to anyone, and when Dean finally tries to talk to him, he receives a black eye and a nose that's probably broken.

\---

"Have you heard anything?"

Castiel's standing over his couch when Chuck opens his eyes to find that the sun's just barely beginning to show itself, but it's not all that hard to figure out what he's getting at.

"No." He rubs at his face. "You?"

"Nothing," he says, and disappears. Instead of the flutter of wings, though, all Chuck hears is the screen door falling back against the frame.

He's halfway back to sleeping when it suddenly sinks in, why that might be.

 _Fuck._

\---

"Have you heard anything?"

And of course Chuck hasn't, but it's been two weeks of this. The nightly questions, the disappointment, the stalking off afterwards, but it's a loop that Chuck can't see a way to escape.

"Seriously. I'd tell you if I had a better answer for you, Cas. I'm sorry."

\---

Castiel doesn't talk to Chuck for the better part of a month.

\---

It's only when shit gets really bad- or too close to home, if that's what this place is, now- that Chuck can do anything more than make sure there are enough bandages and painkillers to go around when they all get back.

So yeah. He's basically become the camp mom, the housewife taking care of the home front while the soldiers go out and fight, but the war is coming closer to home, now, and sometimes, it's all hands on deck.

There's a recon mission, a quick run out to the county line and back again. Eleven people go out, eight return. One glance at Dean tells him not to ask, but that's becoming the norm, these days, and there's not time to talk about it anyway, because Brent's sounding the alarm from up in the watch post, and if there's going to be a fight, the further away from camp that it happens, the better.

He jumps into Risa's truck with Dean and Castiel, and it's probably been the first time they've all been within ten feet of each other at the same time, but that's not what Chuck's thinking about. Instead, he's trying to turn over every inch of his memory, looking for something that he might already know, that might help.

Dean doesn't ask him for answers not that it makes Chuck feel any better, but it's a short trip out to the first barricade. By the time they're pulling up, he can see it. Four black SUVs, coming up the road towards them, and Dean's grumbling something about the President being in town.

"Your President's been dead for three months," Castiel murmurs, surprising nobody. "This is Famine."

\---

Chuck's doing what he can to get the injured back into the trucks, and he's all too aware of how useless his handgun is, but he's firing it behind him at the demon on his tail, hoping to distract it, maybe slow it down. It doesn't seem to be working.

So he's a little surprised when he shoots, and the demon rears back, roaring out black smoke. It's a few minutes later when he looks up and sees others streaming off into the sky, and he guesses that between them, Cas and Dean have managed to take care of the horseman.

Still, though, all told. They've lost seven people today. And even if he's got a ring in his pocket, Dean's also got a limp that won't go away for two weeks, and the argument he has with Cas on the way back to the camp sounds tired, more than anything else.

\---

It's kind of funny, the way Castiel's disappointment in Chuck is probably the best thing for everyone. Apparently some vague line's been redrawn, and Cas is avoiding Dean less, now. He's going over strategies and learning how to maintain and use the weapons. He's a natural shot, and nobody at all is surprised, but Dean's crowing about it, proudly, when they all get together for dinner.

"Come on, Cas. You _have_ to admit that it was pretty cool," Dean says, trying to pull Castiel's attention from the picnic table's surface. After a few moments, though, the conversation turns towards preparing the camp for winter, and Cas is back to examining the graffiti, looking about as lost reading it as any human would, trying to read Enochian.

\---

The fact that it's just a cold going around- that it isn't anything much, much worse- still has everyone on edge, and it's making the camp completely unbearable, all stifled sniping and short fuses. When Dean decides that some duties need to be reassigned, Chuck jumps at the chance to man the watchtower for a night or two.

With two thirds of the camp coughing their lungs out, it's not as if they're going to be making supply runs for the next few days, so it's not like he's got anything pressing to do at the moment. Besides, after two days feeling like crap while it ran its course, Chuck's finally starting to feel human again. He needs a change of scenery.

It's quiet, here, underneath the constant roar of the wind coming in through the broken windows, and there's really nothing to see, not on the first night, and not on the second. Just a light in the far distance, off to the south. A city, maybe, or a fire burning just over the horizon.

He hears the footsteps coming up the stairs, but it's only two hours into his shift. He's got his gun out and ready before he recognizes Cas standing in the doorway.

"Hey, what's up?" Chuck can't tell if he's speaking loudly enough over the wind, here, and if he gets a response, he can't hear it. Castiel leans against the wall, and then seems to decide that the floor is more comfortable.

There's this fluidity to the movement, now, that's a little bit worrying. Kind of like the smudges of dirt on Castiel's coat, or the small tear beginning to open up on the knee of his slacks. They're just flaws on fabric, but he's wearing them like injuries.

And then he fucking _coughs_.

Chuck's savvy enough to not say the first thing that comes to mind- _thought angels didn't get sick_ \- because it's an old habitual thought that probably hasn't applied in a while, now, and instead musters up all the eloquence that he can. "Shit."

That gets a snort from Cas, and a bitter half grin that shouldn't look so natural, but it's easier than looking at his eyes, seeing the tiredness there.

"You should be in bed," Chuck looks away, back out again over the trees.

"I'm fine," comes the impatient reply. It's not the first time he's heard the suggestion, then. He wonders who else already knows. It doesn't sound like Dean, not really, because as far as anyone knows there's nothing important happening in the morning- just the same old apocalypse- and Chuck's seen most of his words before they happened. Advice like that, regardless of whatever disinterest might be in his tone at the time, would probably be given to Sam, nobody else.

It occurs to him that he still has no idea where Cas is staying, if he's staying _anywhere_ , so he asks, gets a shrug in return, a vague "wherever" that doesn't seem to be particularly bothered.

"You can go down and crash on my couch, if you want. I'm not using it," because that's what he does. Handles supply and demand and tries to keep everyone in one piece so that they can go out into the field and come back in several.

Castiel ignores the offer, watching the trees below and toying with the necklace he's still wearing around his neck. After a few moments, he finally asks.

"You're _sure_ you haven't heard anything?"

It takes a moment to get around the desperation in his voice, but Chuck doesn't see the _need_ there until he turns to look at him. Truth is, he's been expecting the question- dreading it- ever since he set his gun aside.

It doesn't mean he wants to say it, but he's been the bringer of bad news for so long that there's no point dancing around it. "I'm not getting anything, anymore. He's not talking, not interested, dead. I don't know. I'm sorry, but. I think he's gone. For good."

Castiel's expression crumbles, then, because Chuck just broke his fucking heart.

\---

Cas has been gone for a few hours, now, but it's the rest of the angels that Chuck's wondering about. It's funny. The only one who could've told him anything's been gone for months, now, and for once, he really wouldn't have minded the headache.

\---

The sun's coming up, now, and Risa's supposed to be coming to relieve him, but it's Dean who's standing in the doorway, smirking as he catches his breath from the climb. "Seriously, if everyone doesn't stop their bitching and moaning, I'm going to shoot them all."

So it's not the time to bring up Castiel, then. Chuck only realizes he'd been considering it until it's taken off the table, but it can wait.

"Well, it's quiet enough up here that you're likely to fall into a coma," he says, standing up and stretching. "Need anything else before I go?"

"Nah. Wait. How're the cold meds holding out?"

"You'll need to keep an eye out on your next few runs to get the stocks back where we want them, but we're holding out, for now."

"Okay, good." Nodding, Dean opens the thermos he's brought with him, and Chuck heads for the stairs.

\---

Cas is asleep on his couch when he gets back, and, only slightly more surprising, there's an empty bottle in the middle of the floor, but he's pretty sure it was only a quarter full last night, and there's another three in the cabinet, anyway.

It doesn't look restful, the way he's sitting, curled up in the corner, even with his coat off and pulled up to his shoulders. Apparently Chuck should've spelled out that the sleeping bag was actually part of the deal.

He'd have to wake him to tell him as much, though, but it's occurring to him that nobody could sleep like that unless they _really_ needed it. Which also is what convinces him not to shake him awake and kick him out, if he doesn't have to.

It'll be a bit cramped, but the couch is still doable.

Cas doesn't wake when he sits down to take off his boots, doesn't move when he lies back and drags the sleeping bag down from the back of the couch. Chuck shifts, making himself more comfortable, and freezes when his foot touches Castiel's leg.

Still, he doesn't wake up, and after a long awkward while spent staring at the desk pushed up against the far wall and the light creeping through around the blinds, Chuck falls asleep.

\---

He's not sure what it is that wakes him, but there's movement down by his feet. He reminds himself that it's just Cas before opening his eyes.

According to his watch, he hasn't even been asleep for an hour, which seems cruel, but one look at Cas tells him he's got nothing to complain about. He's shaking, hands over his face, but they fall, startled, the moment he feels Chuck sit up.

Part of him wishes that he would've kept his hands up, just so he didn't have to be looking at him now. His face is dry, but underneath all the exhaustion, his eyes are watery and wild and mortified, and there's something pulling at the edge of his mouth, tense and unhappy.

"Bad dream?"

Cas nods, snorts as he frowns. "I was flying. Keeps happening. Sorry I woke you, I'll-" he reaches down to the floor where his coat's fallen, and his arm is still shaking. Chuck's pretty sure he can feel his heartbeat through the cushions.

"No," Chuck says, surprising himself, before Cas can carry his plan through. "I mean, if you're awake, that's cool, but if you're not, you might as well stay."

"I'll only wake you up again."

"And I'll fall asleep again, after. Not a big deal."

Cas pulls his jacket up over his shoulders again as he considers, but that's about as far as he gets before he's racked with a startling round of rattling coughs. Once they pass, his head drops against the back of the couch.

"Here," Chuck decides, because it's cold, and he's tired, and he'd just as soon navigate through this whatever it is as quickly as possible. "We'll both sleep better if we're both actually lying down, ah…" It's ridiculous, he's coming _this_ close to sounding like he's hitting on the guy, when he's really not, when sex isn't what this is about at _all_.

But apparently, he's the only one concerned about it, because Cas is shifting forward to make room for Chuck's feet. Either he's drunk, or Chuck knows even less about the things Castiel chooses to be awkward about than he thought.

Chuck rucks up the sleeping bag and straightens himself out on his side, making room, and he's relieved that he doesn't have to verbalize the invitation again when Cas lies down, his back to him.

Once he's dragged the sleeping bag over both of them, Chuck pulls his hands back. One's on his side, the other's resting against Castiel's back, because there's nowhere else for it to go.

After a few minutes, he's so warm that he can't keep his eyes open for anything.

\---

Cas hadn't been lying.

He has the dream again, every time he closes his eyes. There's nothing to be done for it, but Chuck wraps an arm over him, and Cas lets him leave it there. It's not a solution, not even a stopgap, but it's better than nothing.

\---

Castiel's got Chuck's hand in a white-knuckled grip before either of them wake up, and though he relaxes his hold once they do, he doesn't let go.

Chuck doesn't either.

\---

The shaking isn't as bad, the next time, but lying here like this, Chuck falls asleep with Castiel's human heart beating against his own chest.

Thinks, vaguely, on his way back to sleep, about what might happen if it manages to break through.

\--- 


End file.
